D E D k: A r I O N 

The world may read or pass them by, — 
The artless rhymes that I shall write; 

I care not for the critic's eye 

While I can sing for your delight. 

Repute's a feather lightly blown, 
And fame is but a foolish thing; 

I would not wish my name were known 
When you were past remembering. 

C/ii(\ii:;o, I goo. 



C O P V R I Ci H T , 1903, 



B V F R A N K P U T X A M 



THE LAFAYETTE ODE 



AND 



LATER LYRICS 



BY 



FRANK PUTNAM 



Boston, 1903 

The National Magazine Press 

41 West First Street 



<3^ 



w 



ao 



PREFACE 



SIX times I have printed small verse-collections privately. All these earlier 
ventures have long since passed into the dusk. A publisher brought out 
a collection in a book of standard size — an edition of a thousand copies. I 
believe he sold eighty or niore of them, and turned the rest into pulp: it was the 
greatest kindness he could do me. These later pieces, reprinted from Harle- 
quin of New Orleans, the National Magazine of Boston and the Record-Herald 
of Chicago, may or may not be worth saving. In order to determine that point — 
here they are. I have printed an edition of 150 copies — fifty for the press, one 
hundred for sale, should anyone be inclined to buy. The price is one dollar the 
copy, and orders may be addressed to me at East Milton, Massachusetts. 



-^/U/L^ \l_ ^i^^W^ 



Tl-:e LlbrtAriY OF 

CONGRESS, 
T*D C<"iPii=s Receivso 



CONTENTS 

Ode to Lafayette g 

Song for the Savage Peoples 1 1 

Draga 13 

A Gift 14 

Poor Little Mary MacLane 15 

Of Any City 16 

The Wood-Nyiii ph i y 

Autumn 18 

Twentythird Psalm iq 

Ood's Cargo in the Fleets of Trade 20 

Alone 21 

Farewell to Folly 22 

Sweetheart, My Sweetheart 22 

To a Fashionable Poet 2^ 

Ben Harrison the President 24 

Chicago 25 

The Retreat 26 

Melancholy 27 

Mary 27 

Sonje Solemn Meditations on the Passing Centuries 28 

Why Are the Poets Silent on the War? 29 



ODE TO L A F A Y E T T E 

Read on the Occasion of the Unveiling of the Lafay- 
ette Monument in Paris, France, July 4 t h , 1 g o o 

T^ O France as to the sister of her soul 

1 Columbia sends this wreath of immortelle, 
Green for the grave of her immortal son : 
Columbia rears this love-engirdled shaft, 
The tribute of her children and a prayer 
That never in all the ceaseless after years 
Shall night o'ertake the fame of Lafayette. 

II 

Our fathers' fathers knew him face to face; 

They grasped his hand in gladness when he came; 

They heard him wise at council in the hall; 

They saw him like a lion in the field : 

A light heart that was stranger to despair; 

A brave heart that was buoyant in the fight; 

A true heart that in triumph or defeat 

Was steadfast to its purpose as the stars. 

Ill 

He did not ask for honors or for gold, 
He volunteered to follow, not to lead; « 

But chivalry was conscious of its kind, 
So our great Captain took him to his arms. 
And Love has twined the chaplet for his brow. 
When History, cowled and solemn, pens his tale, 
Beneath the line that sets his titles forth 
Be this the legend writ across the page: 
Whe/i Freedom's feet were iveary in the wilds. 
He thrust his sicord t>et7vee/i her and her foes. 

IV 

Republic to Republic! Yonder sea 

That bore your standards to us in our need. 

Shall rise in mist and wander among the worlds 

Ere ever the debt we owe you be forgot. 

Ere ever the debt Man owes you be repaid. 

Yea, on this day to Freedom consecrate, 

We pledge anew beside the Hero's bier 

Unfaltering faith to that eternal Truth 

In whose behalf he made our cause his own, 



10 



Beneath whose banner he led our ragged hosts 
With Washington from darkness to the day. 

V 

Come Britain, elder brother of our blood: 
Prophetic Slav and German patriot, come: 
Italia, Hellas, peaks in Time's long range: 
Swiss from the heights where Freedom's holy fires, 
Through centuries of oppression on the plain. 
Blazed beacon-like above a struggling world: 
Come, brown men from the emancipated isles, 
Our kinsmen and co-partners that shall be: 
Lovers of men in all the round earth's lands, 
Columbia bids you kneel with her this day. 
And now, above the dust of Lafayette, 
In his white name beseech Almighty God 
To quicken in us the spirit that was his — 
The son of France and brother of all mankind. 



11 



SONG FOR THE SAVAGE PEOPLES 

" That man eii masse may iciii a far perfection. 
How many men are broke// on the wheel. ' ' 

YOU have no bards the Christian tribes give heed to, 
You have no Press to agitate your wrongs; 
Your lands the white man take a rifle deed to, 
And squares himself in rudyard-kipling songs. 

Now Love has -left me honest for a season 

And moralizing palls upon my pen, 
I'll be your bard and pass a bard's decrees on 

The conduct of my restless fellow-men. 

Two propositions first must be met plainly: 

Assimilate or perish is your lot; 
And, second, though they say they love you, mainly 

They look you up to capture what you've got. 

For O my brother, black or brown or yellow. 
The white man's busy brain is full of guile; 

And you are just the si u] pie sort of fellow 

He meets and greets and plunders with a smile. 

Two thorny roads confront you — war and bleaching; 

The latter I'm inclined to recommend. 
Absorb the white man's practice with his preaching, 

And both, perchance, will profit by the blend. 

The mines you have no thought of he will sink them ; 

The ports you have no use for he will fill 
With ships that bring strange liquors; you will drink them, 

And, drinking, grow more pliant to his will. 

Your sons will pluck the metals from the bowels 
Of mountains where you chased the flying game; 

While Culture will insert the needed vowels 
To Christianize your consonantal name. 

Your daughters will be playthings for the husky 

And hairy-breasted Vikings who control; 
The savage maid must yield her body dusky 

To learn the news of her immortal soul. 

Where tigress to her cubs is fondly purring, 
The woodman's ax will lay the city's floor; 

And there the white man's god, with spindles whirring 
Will lure your tender children through its door. 

And they will toil in heaviness, forgetting 
The fragrance and the beauty of the wood; 



12 



While forest gods will fly afar, regretting 
Dead years when to be glad was to be good. 

If you decide the program doesn't suit you; 
If you agree that war's a wiser plan, 

My genial friends will huinor you and shoot you, 
And pray you into heaven if they can. 

Take my advice and bow to the eternal 
Decree that rules in jungle as in town ; 

Acquire the white man's wisdom and the journal 
Of future times will echo your renown. 

Peace comes when all earth's races are united, 
A single tribe that owns a single tongue; 

Your sacrifice will surely be requited 

When over all true Freedom's flag is flung. 

Chicago, igoo. 



13 



DRAG A 

piRAGA dwelt with Alexander, king. 
*~-^ Fair she was and he was young and ardent. 
Love hath ever laid its best foundations, 
Bird-like, in secluded, quiet places; 
Thrones, exposed to all the winds of fortune. 
Grant it but a brief and perilous lodging. 
Yet with honied words and silent pressure, 
Hand in hand, and all the pretty follies 
Lovers play at, they were wondrous busy; 
Eyes had he for none but his enchantress. 
Other beauties vied for royal favor, — 
Failure fanned resentment into fury. 
Hatred hissed before them like a serpent; 
Scandal spun its dusky web around them. 
They were happy and the gods immortal 
Envied them and slew them as they slumbered. 
Life they lost — vain, fleeting; and, unwitting. 
Gained instead a crown of fame eternal. 
See, upon the shore of Love's Elysium, 
Antony and Cleopatra greet them ! 
Toil and loss and at the end oblivion, — 
These are yours and mine, the common portion ; 
Only those escape who, greatly daring, 
Hazard all for love, and, losing, gain. 
Let the pure condemn them ; let the faultless 
Hurl their puny pebbles; I, a sinner. 
Lay a flower upon the tomb of Draga, 
She who dwelt with Alexander, king. 
Boston, August, /goj. 



14 



A G I F 1^ 

THE Great Man toils to heap his gains, 
Day by day and year by year; 
The Dreamer, child of hope and fear. 
Weaves in a song his joy and woe; 
The earth recalls her own and lo! 
Only the Dreamer's song remains. 

Pierpont Morgan's power is vast, 

Kings are pawns in the game he plays; 

But earth will claim her own at last, 
And his fame perish in length of days. 
In pity of him his name I save 
Out of the mouth of time's deep grave: 

He who is lord of the greedy throng 

Shall live at last in an idle song. 

Yea, men dig deep and men build high. 
Giving their towers to Time his keep; 
Then go their way to the last long sleep 

With straight cold limb and calm closed eye. 

Time's wrath which naught of the earth withstands 
Strikes their towers to dust once more 
And blots out even the names they bore 

When they sought heaven with empty hands. 

One name I save for the days to be, 
That men whom fear nor love restrains 

May read the riddle herein and see 

Why only the Dreamer's song remains. 

Boston, igoi. 



15 



POOR LIT T L E MARY M A C L A N E 

FROM Butte, which is commonly mute, 
Comes a cry of ecstatical pain ; 
From Butte — God preserve us! — from Butte, 

Given over to guzzling and gain. 
Like the sobbing night-winds that dispute 

In a minor that saddens the rain : — 
Like a heart-break blown into a flute, 
Is The Story of Mary MacLaiie. 

Mary, Mary, quite contrary. 

Born to be loved and slain ; — 
Poor little Mary, — out of the dark, 

And into the dark again. 

She loves and repels — 'tis her sex; 

She desires, and fears her desire; 
Like a nymph she coquettishly flecks 

Her eyeballs with amorous fire; 
She calls on the Devil to fly 

To her succor, but calls him in vain: — 
He is busy with those who defy 

His wishes. — Poor Mary MacLane! 

Mary, Mary, quite eonfrarx, 

{Give her your love, not blame.) 
Poor little Mary, pawn of the Pates 

In a truly mysterious game. 

From Boston, the prude by the sea, 

To Butte, is a niillioii of miles, 
In the matter of rye vs. tea 

And the standards of ethical styles; 
But the prude by the Puritan sea, 

In spite of her centuried skein. 
Has woven no music for me 

Like the sorrow of Mary MacLane. 

Mary, Mary, quite contrary, 

Beating against your bars, — 
You should have been born in the earth's gray morn 

When Ve/ius 7C'as conquering Mars. 

But now, O ye Gods! and in Butte! 

Was ever such vile trick played 
On a spirit lit with a Sapphic fire 

And housed in a winsome maid? 
'Tis a tale for the after years. 

To be read with a tender sigh 



16 



By maids who scan through a mist of tears 
The same old baffling sky. 

Mary, Mary, quite contrary, 

Born to be loved and slai/i; — 
Poor little Mary, — out of the dark, 
And into the dark again. 
Boston, I go 2. 



OF ANY CITY 

WHO cares for song in this besotted city, 
Except it be to jest of him who sings? 
The sordid sneer, the wise regard with pity 
The soul that gives imagination wings. 

Yet do men sing in this remorseless prison, 

Triumphant songs that mock at gates and bars; 

As of a cag^d lark whose spirit has risen. 
Holding serene communion with the stars. 

The day forgot, its bread-sweat and its madness 
To their high cells come visions heaven-sent, 

Bearing a balm of spiritual gladness — 
The glory of God and His divine content. 

Strive not, O Town, for wealth and power only. 
These things will yield to Time's consuming flame; 

Give ear to them that sing in garrets lonely ^ — 

They are the pledge of your eternal fame. 
Chicago, I go/. 



17 



THE WOOD-NYMPH 

HO, Alice of the winsome ways, 
How fare you in this woful weather? 
Do you, as I, with backward gaze, 

Recall vexed hours we strove together? 
Does some face in the passing throng 

For you, as me, renew old fancies? — 
Some note in else unheeded song. 
Rebuild the hall of our romances? 

Sometimes at eve, when on the wings 

Of lightning time's tale flies before me, 
A word blots out material things, 

And old, undying dreams come o'er me. 
Then for a space do I forget 

The yoke of toil, the burden-bearing, 
And live again the day I met 

A light heart from Acadia faring. 

And she was O, so very fair — 

No woman, but a wood-nymph dancing; 
And I a dull wight bowed with care, 

Bewildered by a sight entrancing. 
Came visions then born out of time, 

Foredoomed to dwell in faded letters;-- 
Faint resolutions spent in rhyme ;~ 

Desire that dared not break its fetters. 

So be it; too late the wood-nymph finds 

The clod, and, laughing, bids attend her; 
Then, passing, leaves him 'midst the hinds 

To muse upon his hour of splendor. 
Too late! But O, so subtly sweet 

The memory of the wood-nymph's laughter 
As she drew near on dancing feet, 

With all the graces tripping after. 

The clod toils on; the wood-nymph strays 

With great Pan by the winding river; 
And, half in wonder, half in praise. 

The toiling clod thanks Fate the giver. 
For still some gladness night reveals, 

And gray day grants a meed of pleasure. 
Since through his dreams her laughter peals, 

Wild music in a wanton measure. 
Chicago, igoo. 



A U T U M N 

I WISH I had a pipeful of tobacco 
That tasted as it did in '94; 
A cabin in the forest with the children — 
And all the little forest people's children ^ — 

At play where I could watch them from the door. 

The city's ways are not my ways, and never 

Shall I to its demands be reconciled; 
I walk amid its roar and rumble, dreaming, 
A cool and careful man in outward seeming, 
But in my heart a lost and lonely child. 

I wear a mask, as you do and as all do. 

To hide what none has time to coniprehend; 

A mask of settled purpose and of daring, 

To hide how very little I am caring 
For anything but just to find a friend. 

Now even you, old pipe, though you are loyal. 

Have failed me in this hour I sit alone; 
Lights out and in our fancy let us wander 
Over the hills of Time away back yonder, 

Where laughter lent the world a sweeter tone. 
Boston, I go/. 



19 



T 



T W E N r Y r H I R D PSALM 

HE might of God's enfolding arms my foes and fears alike will daunt; 
His mercy brims my cup; He is my shepherd and I shall not want. 



E'en though my bread be but a crust, my roof be mean, my fire burn low. 
His love will fill my soul with peace, my heart with a diviner glow. 

Through pastures sweet with scented bloom His unseen presence leadeth me; 
In running brooks and waters still His unremitting care I see. 

Yea, when I walk within the vale where death's black shadow glooms the way, 
I shall not fear; the Lord my God will guide my feet and be my stay. 

Beyond that vale no heart is torn, no eye with tears of anguish wet: — 
His Word it is the solid rock whereon my house of hope is set. 

O long and long the way He leads His children to their destined place; 
A-many suns must rise and sink ere we may look upon His face; 

But sometime, be it e'er so far, the way will lead us to His door, 
And we shall bide at His dear side forever and forevermore. 
Boston, igo2. 



20 



GOD'S CARGO IN THE F L E E 1 S OF TRADE 

BE not afraid, I have no creed 
To thrust in your unwilling ears; 
The changeless mission of the years 
I witness in the passing deed. 

Where x^sia's dragon rears his head, 
And bids the fleets of trade retire, 
His foulness shall be cleansed with fire, 

His altars with his blood be red. 

His patient bondmen shall be freed, 

His gods return to primal dust; 

His daughters, by the victor's lust. 
Give earth a stronger, shrewder breed. 

Some truth these new men shall digest 
With mother-milk from Eastern lore; 
And from their fathers something more. 

The quickened wisdom of the West. 

The leveling-upward process runs, 

A bright thread, through the warp of time ; 
So, from the loins of seeming crime. 

Spring fairer daughters, nobler sons. 

The engines of the fleets of trade 

Are spurred by many a secret flame; 

Their masters know not why they camef 
Across wild waters undismayed. 

They know not all they take o'er-sea, 

Who bully, barter, bribe and buy: 

They take a light -that cannot die. 
The lamp God lit in Galilee. 

The living wires that link the lands. 
The steel-shod ships that swim the seas. 
They also serve divine decrees 

That hour they answer trade's demands. 

No more in grim, barbaric pride, 

Shall any people close their door 

Against their brothers; never more 
Alone shall any people bide. 

I urge not war nor peace; I see 

Earth's peoples meet, recoil — and blend; 
And each man finds his foe a friend. 

And each has made the other free. 

Chicago, igoi. 

•J* 



21 



ALONE 

HE has not any home 
Save what he hires; 
He warms his weary limbs 
At alien fires. 

No woman clasps his hands 

Within her twain; 
No children swell his pride 

Or soothe his pain. 

He has no memories sweet 

To brood upon — 
No echo of little feet 

Before him gone. 

Time's wintry winds lay bare 

His massy head; 
The weight of age and care 

Is in his tread. 

How will he meet that hour 

When, overthrown 
His dreams of place and power, 

He falls, alone? 
Boston, igoj. 



22 



FAREWELL TO FOLLY 

pORGIVE this hour of melancholy 

And judge it not to my despite, 
For I have said farewell to Folly 
And set my feet toward the light. 

(Oh shall I find a light hereafter, 
In thy grey annals, men most wise, 

That can inspire hope's happy laughter 
Like the dear light in Folly's eyes?) 

It is so sad a thing --this Reason, 
And Folly is so sweet of heart, 

E'en must I seize, though it be treason, 
An hour with Folly ere we part. 



SWEETHEART, MY SWEETHEART 

SWEETHEART, my sweetheart, thrice blessed was was the night 
When fondly, if blindly, by Love's immortal right, 
In secret bovver we sped the hour of passionate delight. 

Sweetheart, my sweetheart, how infinite your charms- — 

The kisses, the blisses, the tremulous alarms. 

The quenchless fire of fierce desire in your encircling arms. 

Sweetheart, my sweetheart, can you and 1 forget 
How Love arrayed the silent shade where hearts ecstatic met, 
When on my breast you sank to rest? — Ah, never shall I forget! 
Chicag;o, i8gg. 



23 



TO A FAS HIOx\ ABLE POET 

IS the murmur of approval, high and higher. 
That the winds of favor waft you very sweet? 

Does your spirit know its old heroic fire, 
That could laugh alike at failure or defeat? 

Is the olden inspiration in your lyre 
Now that Fashion scatters roses for your feet? 

Are you happy, say, or sorry, since the morning 
When, by Want and wily Patronage beset, 

You began, with silken sophistries adorning 

Greed's aggressions, the repayment of your debt? 

Was the offer fit for seizing or for scorning? 
Can they teach a living conscience to forget? 

You are silent: — is -their scorn allied to pity? 
Do they give you leave of labor now and then 

To invent a gilded song or Bacchic ditty 
In the practice of a prostituted pen? 

Thou eunuch of the prosperous and pretty. 

Who might have had dominion over men! 
Chicago, iSgy. 



24 



BEN HARRISON THE PRESIDENT 

AT length in God's half acre, beneath the Hoosier skies, 

Ben Harrison the President in wakeless slumber lies, 
And something in the thought of it has dimmed the people's eyes. 

Ben Harrison the President is past all mortal pains. 
Past grief for mortal losses and hope of mortal gains; 
The man we knew has left us, the good he did remains. 

We thought him cold, and often his ways were not our own; 
His mind was on too sure a base to be by passion blown: 
Ben Harrison the President was strong to stand alone. 

The simple faith our fathers had was ample for his needs; 
He lived to warn the land he served against tyrannic creeds, 
And square with his ideals was the record of his deeds. 

Our children in the days to be, when we that mourn are gone. 
Will see new names of mighty men upon our annals drawn, 
But nobler minded gentleman they will not look upon. 
Chicago, igoi. 



25 



CHICAGO 

CHICAGO, Prince of Cities, I salute you! 
Young ruler in the kingdom of the strong; 
You give me leave to labor for a living, 
I give your name to democratic song. 

I do not share the whining accusation 
That Art is here neglected by the throng; 

True Art is to its maker's soul sufficient — 
A picture or a palace or a song. 

I see you honor honesty in office, 

I see you swift to grapple giant wrong; 

I see you pause in trade to worship beauty — 
In each is inspiration for a song. 

To conquer health and plenty for your millions, 
I see your Genius toiling late and long; 

For valor and for virtue I salute you, 
Chicago, Prince of Cities, in a song. 

Chicago, iSgy. 



26 



THE RETREAT 

I HAVE no gold, nor lack of it; 
Whenas I had, it led me wrong; 
Pursuing hot the track of it, 

I starved my single talent. Song. 

Who will may hold the foolish chase 
With panting breath and stumbling feet; 

This hour I quit the endless race 
And hasten down the long retreat. 

The road is rich with rare delights, — 
I missed them when I came this way; 

I pause where Music's voice invites, 
I join the boys and girls at play. 

Time's happy children! Even as these 
Are they to whom my journey tends, — 

Pan's troop at play beneath the trees, 
My first inspirers, comrades, friends. 

1 left then] at Love's own behest; 

Love bade me fight for power and gold: 
Then Music died within my breast, 

And Laughter left me stern and cold. 

Love left me, too; it could not bear 
Conditions which itself retiuired: 

Love blooms in a serener air 
And is by nobler aims inspired. 

Love curiously itself deceives, 

And moth-like seeks devouring fire; 

Like windy flame in drifted leaves 
Love makes of its own hearth a pyre. 

Sans Love, sans gold, sans power and fame, 
I walk with Laughter hand-in-hand; 

We seek the land from whence we came — 
Life's fairest and its gladdest land. 

I know that Love awaits me there; 

I hear Pan's piping, far and fine; 
I have no fear nor any care, — 

The good gifts shall again be mine. 

Boston, IQOJ. 



27 



MELANCHOLY 

COME, gentle melancholy, at the eve. 
Sit with me in the dusk and let us weave 
Such fancies as the wayward poet breeze 
Whispers unto the spirits of the trees. 

Let thy wings droop and let thy gaze be lifted 
Where o'er the smiling moon a cloud hath drifted; 
Lulled by remembered music of far streams. 
Silence be on us and the spell of dreams. 
Waterloo, Iowa, igoi 



MARY 

WORLDLY gear is yours. 
Its pleasures I resign; 
Heavenly joy's my share 
With Mary's hands in mine. 

Threadbare is my coat — 
Its enapty pockets flout me! 

Still do I rejoice 

With Mary's arms about me. 

The nian to men unknown 
Their notice never misses; 

He finds a sweet reward 
In bonny Mary's kisses. 

'The great from rank and gold 
Grim Death will shortly sever; 

Mary's love is mine 
Forever and forever. 

Chicago, iSqj. 



28 



s o M p: solemn m e d i r anions on the 

PASSING CENTURIES 

I 

PEACE bells a-ringing and a-singing in the steeples; 
God's folks a-shooting off the sassy little peoples. 

II 

Go blow your horns, ray children, in your innocence and rairth; 

But new years and old years they're all the same to me. 
For I traveled out of ether with the meteoric earth. 

And I was in the mountains when the world was all a sea. 
It's all the sanie to me, boys, all the same to me, 
For I was in the mountains when old Noah sailed the sea. 

Noah tried to sell me a ticket for the trip; 

But I didn't have the money nor no money could I get; 
So for forty days I listened to the drizzle and the drip 

Of the water in the mountains (and I'lu hating of it yet.) 
So it's all the same to me, dears, all the same to me, 

For I was in the mountains when the Ark was on the sea. 

Ill 

Comedy and Tragedy are waltzing through my song; 

Virtue leads the fiddling in a melancholy tone. 
Sin's a-playing second and he plays it mighty strong. 

And the hearts of all the dancers feel the passion of his own. 

IV 

Work awaits for all of us, the frivolous and sage; 
For some of us an hour, for some of us an age; 
Gentleness and charity to wipe away the tears. 
Example high to shame away the follies and the fears 
Of blundering humanity through all the weary years 
Till earth shall see the glory of the vision of the seers. 

V 

The stage is time, and epochs are the actors in the play; 
Run on, you little centuries, I've anchored here to stay. 
Chicago, i8gg. 



29 



w;hy are the poets silent on the war? 

THE salaried poets with jobs to sack 
May well consider the cost of singing 
As Whittier sang for the shackled black, 
His hot heart into the message flinging. 

The wee pet poets maintained by wealth 

To glass the follies of idle fashion — 
They dare not hazard their precious health 

By working up to a nahsty passion. 

The negro, Hoosier and Yankee bards. 

Who clutter the blank page-ends with drivel, — 

So they but market their stint of yards, 
The blasted nation may swell or shrivel. 

The art-soul men and the men who bid 

With cool, clean skill for a fame eternal — 

Their hearts are ice and their heads are hid 
In clouds remote from earth's wars infernal. 

So some are silent who might speak plain 

And purge men's hearts of the lust for killing; 

And some have bartered beliefs for gain 

W^ith a canned-war syndicate, rich and willing. 

But Song is jealous of human rights 

And will not soar on the wings of wages: 

The screed the syndicate hack indites 

Slinks down and hides in its dusty pages. 

Now I have little of worth to lose. 

And I have no wish to invade Fame's portal; 

I'm much too busy in paying my dues 
To carve my name in the stone imujortal. 

So I take my f^ing at the war gang's greed. 
That has built its fort on a seething crater; 

And I give the lie to the dwarfing creed 
That names the lover of Man a traitor. 

For' I know no cause but the cause of Man, 
And I like fair play in the far-sea places: 

I hold fair play is a wiser plan 

Than war to benefit proud young races. 

I have no craze to impose our rule 

On a people armed to defend their altars; 

I'm sick of this "national honor" drool. 
And I have an inherited hate for halters. 



]0 



To hell with "national honor" that needs 

A triumph over a stripling nation ! 
For "national honor" say "syndicate greeds," 

And you've hit the nail on the right location. 

Say greed of office and greed of gold, 

And a pious greed to convert the sinners — 

Today as ever the tale is told, 

With "God" as ever behind the winners. 

The piety-spreaders with sad sweet speech 
Proclaim our mission to lift the savage; 

Their shrewd trade allies, for what's in reach. 
Will meantime legally loot and ravage. 

Here's Pastor MacQueen of Boston-town 
And he wanders in from Manila saying, 

The men we're fighting are hard to down. 
And can give us ten in a hundred, praying. 

And they offered us privilege far and nigh. 
With grateful friendship ours for the taking; 

And they looked to us for exaniple high 

In Freedom's temple that they were making; 

But we bought our claim of a common thief 
Who was driven to bay in a stolen city; 

And now, contrary to our belief, 

We are slaughtering patriots. Christ! the pity! 

Chicago, igoo. 



